Metamorphosis
by NefarioussNess
Summary: Scott's eyes flashed yellow, baring his fangs as the shifter rested on its new form—Derek's. Its smile was vicious, and its eyes gleamed that triumphant Alpha red as it grabbed a fistful of Stiles' hair, exposing his throat.
1. Chapter 1

"What a pretty face."

Scott snarled at the creature, pulling against his restraints. The metal clamps circling his wrists were drenched in wolfsbane, and he gritted his teeth in pain whenever his skin brushed against them. But he could handle it; the poisonous quantity was at such a low level that it was more of a nuisance than a deathblow.

But the creature—a shifter; he remembered Deaton cautioning him about them once—had adapted quickly. It knew of a better method of getting under Scott's skin.

The shifter rolled its neck, and instantly its features twisted, morphing into a new face. The previous one had been of some girl that Scott had no recollection of. Its features were still rippling into something new when it went to stand behind Stiles.

Quick, ragged breaths were escaping from Stiles' split and bloodied lips, and Scott noticed his eyes rolling under his eyelids. He was tied to a wooden chair (no doubt it was also drenched in wolfsbane), leaving angry red rope burns from when Stiles had struggled against them previous. Deep gashes were drawn across his forearms and shoulders, and the blood had finally ceased flowing. The steady _drip drip_ of it had been like a thunderstorm in Scott's ears.

Now Stiles' form was slumped, his head lolling to one side.

Scott's eyes flashed yellow, baring his fangs as the shifter rested on its new form—Derek's. Its smile was vicious, and its eyes gleamed that triumphant Alpha red as it grabbed a fistful of Stiles' hair, exposing his throat.

"And such a pretty neck," smirked the shifter. He whipped out his knife, grinning as Scott strained himself against the chains. But it was no use; he couldn't get any farther than five feet from the wall.

The bastard was obviously enjoying this.

The shifter crouched down next to Stiles, pressing the flat of the blade against an exposed vein. "You'd be lying if you never thought of tapping this."

The thing had Derek's voice, his physique, but it was only when its eyes flashed that dead look that Scott was able to remind himself that it wasn't the Alpha. The mannerisms were all wrong too; they were too touchy and _sensual,_ Scott thought as the Derek-shifter slowly drew the flat of the blade across Stiles' jugular.

"Leave him out of this," Scott demanded.

The shifter raised an eyebrow in his direction. He tilted the knife ever so subtly, nicking Stiles just under his chin. Blood welled up before streaming down and over his Adam's apple.

"Please," Scott pleaded, "just stop. He can't heal like me. You're going to bleed him out!" he screamed, just as the shifter plunged the knife in shoulder.

Instantly Stiles was awake, hissing and cursing in pain. He looked over at his captive, and his words faltered.

"Derek?"

"No," sneered the shifter. He wrenched the blade from Stiles' shoulder. Stiles gasped in pain, and Scott saw the wide-eyed panic on his face. He looked over at Scott, studying the poisoned chains, possibly calculating a plan in his head.

"You're better off worrying about yourself, sweetheart," purred the shifter, and Scott saw Stiles' startled look as he stared into Peter's face.

The creature was now just doing a game of Russian roulette of familiar—and unwanted—faces.

"Finally, a genuine reaction," sighed the Peter-shifter. He stood up, walking around Stiles' chair, ignoring the look of hatred on Scott's face. "I'll be honest, when I was conducting my study on you two," he began silkily, "I didn't go into much depth. Choosing faces of loved ones is always a first, but I prefer the ones that can cause this sort of _reaction_."

The Peter-shifter trailed lazily across Stiles' shoulder as he continued. "I also enjoy a witness to my extraordinary talents. But so far, Scotty, you didn't seem to appreciate them much."

"Let. Him. Go." Scott snarled. His body vibrated with anger when the shifter smiled, and shook his head.

"Oh no, not now," the shifter grinned. "I finally found the right face." He was directly behind Stiles now, gripping his shoulders. Scott heard the grinding of bones as he squeezed tightly. His nails dug into Stiles' bare flesh, causing fresh blood to bubble up. Stiles bit his lip, but Scott saw the tears well up in his eyes.

"Stop," Scott protested weakly. His throat was dry and beginning to turn raspy from the hours of screaming himself hoarse at the shifter.

_You don't have to do this! He has nothing to do with this!_

_Oh, that's where you're wrong, Scotty. He's your best friend, right? And look how brave he is. Not so much as a whimper from his lips. I want both of you here to witness him when he finally breaks._

"Why?" smiled the shifter. His knife was now under Stiles' chin, and was just grazing the flesh. "He's about to break. There's something about this face that clearly terrifies him."

He moved the knife away from his victim's throat and circled around, positioning himself in front of Stiles, but while still giving Scott a clear view of his best friend's face. He leaned in close, and when Stiles tried to avert his eyes the shifter sighed impatiently. He grabbed Stiles' chin, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"You're living in a town of monsters, kiddo," he murmured. "But what is it about this face that's causing this fear?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Stiles spat out, but the effect was lost when his voice came out raspy and tired. "He killed people. Turned by best friend without his permission. Oh, and he mauled the girl of my dreams right in front of me. Wouldn't you be a little nervous too?"

"You're _lying_," the shifter hissed. "Come on, _elaborate_. It's story time, darling. Don't hold back on us."

Stiles shook his head, ever so slightly. The shifter growled, low and dangerous.

"I just needed you to scream," it said, just as it plunged the knife into Stiles' ribcage.

"STILES!" Scott screamed. The wound was frothing with dark blood. It poured down Stiles' front, darkening his T-shirt. Stiles eyes widened; his body convulsing as he began to cough loudly. Blood erupted from his mouth.

The shifter sighed, standing up to admire his work. "Still nothing?" he drawled out. He waved one of his hands in front of his face. "I had the right look, the weapon… Why won't you break?"

Scott had grabbed a fistful of the chains, and pulled desperately at them. His palms burned and hissed with pain from the wolfsbane, and Scott's heart leapt when he felt the bolts in the wall loosen somewhat.

By then the shifter had ripped out the knife from Stiles with a great wet, sucking noise, and was inspecting the blood on it in the dim lighting.

"I hate a toy that refuses to break properly," he mused, rolling his eyes as Scott attempted to free himself. "Oh, don't bother. He's most likely going to die from internal bleeding at this rate."

"Go fuck yourself!" Scott yelled.

"Tut, tut," scolded the Peter-shifter. "You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?"

Scott nearly fell forward as the bolt's finally released themselves from the concrete. The chain dragged noisily across the ground as Scott rushed toward the shifter, pouncing on him. They both toppled to the floor, the shifter falling flat onto its back.

"Scott, wait!" it pleaded, and Scott's claws hovered over its throat. He hesitated, because the shifter had taken on Allison's face.

The Allison-shifter smiled maliciously and stabbed Scott in the stomach. It drove the blade in farther, twisting it for emphasis. It pushed Scott off of it, and leapt to its feet.

"So predictable, Scotty," it grinned. Scott winced; the warped expression looked so wrong and unnatural on Allison's face. It gave the werewolf a swift kick in the sternum before it turned tail and raced out of the room.

Scott pulled out the knife, and tossed it across the room. It bounced off of the wall, and scattered across the floor, skidding to a halt a few feet from Stiles. Scott grimaced as his wound forced itself to knit the flesh together. He stumbled over to the chair, and slashed the rope holding him down with a quick flick. Stiles fell forward, and Scott grabbed him, pressing his body against his own.

Stiles' heartbeat was slowly shuddering to a halt.


	2. Chapter 2

"Stay with me," Scott pleaded. "Wake up, come on." The bleeding had somewhat staunched itself, but Stiles was white and struggling to breathe.

Scott blamed himself for not breaking out of those chains sooner. His mind pummelled him with self-loathing for never knowing why Peter's face had caused his best friend such fear.

People gasped when Scott made his way through the hospital's entrance, covered in dried and cracking blood. Stiles' heartbeat was a faint echo in his ears; his body heavy and slack in his arms.

"Scott, what happened?!" Melissa raced over from the nurse's station, eyes wide at the sight of them. "Oh my God!"

"Mom," Scott exclaimed, relieved to see that she was on duty. "Mom, he was stabbed. Get him the OR, please!"

His mother nodded firmly, and the proceeding events became a slow-motion blur. Everything had taken on a dreamlike quality; the other nurses prying Stiles from Scott's hands, placing him on a bed before wheeling him off into the OR. Scott watched all of this with tenseness in his shoulders and that dull, throbbing panic in his breastbone.

The shifter was still out there, and Scott knew that Stiles wasn't safe while it was still breathing.

* * *

He couldn't stand the tension; it had been hours since he'd arrived at the hospital.

Melissa had tried coaxing him to go home and sleep, but Scott gave her that stubborn look, so she dropped the subject.

"What actually happened, Scott?"

"He was stabbed."

"By who?"

"Mom…"

His mother's shoulders slumped. "Was it…?" Her voice trailed away, but Scott knew the unspoken question.

"No, not exactly," he murmured, looking around nervously. "But it's still something supernatural. I need time to figure this out."

Melissa nodded. One of the other nurses called out to her; one of her other patients needed their vitals checked and get doped up on their meds.

"Where were you last night? I was worried sick!" His mother asked anxiously. "I called the Sheriff, and when he told me that Stiles hadn't shown up after practice, I knew something must've happened…"

"Melissa!" shouted the nurse impatiently.

Melissa gave her a curt wave, and turned back to Scott. "Be careful," she commanded. "Get some sleep." His mother gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head before striding away.

* * *

He decided to call Lydia. She was the latest person to get involved in this whole werewolf business, but her knowledge was on par with Stiles'.

"What do you know about shape shifters?" he asked in a way of greeting. He could practically see her roll her eyes on her end.

"Hello to you too, Scott," she drawled coldly. Scott could hear the slightest hint of Florence + The Machine playing in the background. He guessed that she was at home; hopefully close by to a laptop. "You never call, which means you need _something_ from me. I'm surprised that you aren't using Stiles to answer your question."

"That's the problem," Scott said, "It's Stiles. He's in the hospital right now."

Lydia was silent. "What happened?" she said. The defenses in her tone had dropped slightly, and so Scott pressed on.

"I went out into the woods last night," Scott began. "I got a call from Allison…"

"_Of course_ you did," said Lydia coldly, and Scott ignored that quip. Lydia had been avoiding Allison ever since she discovered the Argent family's 'dirty little secret'. Allison and her father ended up moving out of Beacon Hills soon after. It was summer now, and Scott hadn't heard or seen hunters since then.

"I thought it was her," Scott continued, "The caller ID said her name, and it sounded like her…"

"And you didn't find it suspicious that she would suddenly call you after a dry season without hearing from her?" Lydia scolded, and Scott felt his face grow hot.

"Call me a moron later," he grumbled.

"I'll make sure to prepare a big speech," Lydia sneered. "Continue."

"When I got to the woods, I was ambushed. When I came to, I was chained up—"

"Very kinky," Lydia muttered in a bored voice.

"—And Stiles was there. And so was that shape shifter."

Lydia pretty much got the gist after that. "You need me to figure out its weaknesses?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Yes," Scott breathed, relieved by her sudden cooperation. "How to detect it and everything."

"Did it have a different scent?"

"What?"

_"Did it have a different scent?"_ Lydia hissed. "If it's taking on the forms of other people temporarily, then it should be difficult for it to mask itself behind that person's signature aroma."

"So it should be odourless then?"

"Well, it won't smell _natural_, now will it?" Lydia sighed dramatically. Scott heard the clacking of keys on her end. "Watch him. Stiles, that is. Keep your guard up. Don't let anyone near him that you aren't one hundred percent sure is human and harmless. Got it?"

_I'm not an idiot,_ Scott thought angrily, but nodded anyway. "Don't worry, I got it. And thanks."

* * *

Scott jumped out of his seat—the uncomfortable plastic was making his ass numb from sitting there so long—when the doctors finally came out of the OR with Stiles. They wheeled him into a vacant room, and Scott slipped in while they were busy hooking him up to the monitor and IV drip.

"What are you doing in here?!" one of the doctors demanded when they finally spotted Scott. The ID pinned to the front of his white lab coat read, "Dr. Patrick Innes."

"Is he OK?!" Scott asked desperately. Dr. Innes gave him a wary once-over. Scott looked down; he'd forgotten that he was still covered in blood.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, young man," warned the doctor.

_"Is he going to make it?"_ Scott growled, low and dangerous. He curled his fingers into fists and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt his claws stab into his palm, but he ignored the pain. _Calm down,_ he ordered himself.

"…Scott?"

Dr. Innes turned around, looking surprised. Stiles was stirring, but his eyes were still closed. Scott shoved back the doctor and crouched down, kneeling at the side of the bed. There were those breathing tubes in his nostrils, and his heart monitor was still slow, but a lot higher than it was six hours ago.

Stiles gave him a weary grin as his eyes flickered open. "That hurt like a bitch."

"Which parts?" Scott asked nervously.

Stiles' eyes were suddenly faraway and unseeing. "All of it, dumbass."

The doctor was gone when Scott looked over. "How are you?" Scott asked. He needed to know something, anything. They weren't out of this predicament, not by a long shot.

Stiles grimaced, gripping the linen sheets as he struggled to sit up. Scott pressed a firm hand to his chest, keeping him down. "You need rest, buddy."

Stiles stuck his tongue at him. "I'm not made out of porcelain. And as if you're the one to talk; you look like you got the shit beaten out of you."

"It's nothing," Scott said hastily. He grabbed the only chair in the room and pulled it up next to the bed. His eyes never left Stiles' face, which were still covered in scratches and cuts.

Stiles smiled weakly at him. "Hey, I've been through worse scrapes than this. Get that sad puppy look off your face."

A surge of guilt overcame Scott. He rose out of his seat, and pulled Stiles into a hug. He heard Stiles wince with pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Stiles' shoulder. "I should've gotten you out of there sooner; I should've tried harder—"

"Scott—"

"I keep trying to save everyone, but you were there right in front of me, and I—"

"Scott!" Stiles shouted as he weakly pushed Scott away. Stiles' eyes were wide and concerned. Scott swallowed a lump in his throat with a shuddering gulp. His eyes burned with a different kind of redness.

"Scott buddy, you're kind of scaring me here," continued Stiles. His hands ran down from Scott's shoulders to his muscular arms, licking his lips nervously. "I'm not dead _yet_, and—"

"Don't say that!" Scott pleaded. "You're not dead, you're alive, and it's going to stay that way!"

"I'm hoping for that too," Stiles agreed. He looked at Scott intently. "That shape shifter is still alive, isn't it?"

Scott nodded guiltily. "Yeah," he said, "it… distracted me, and got away."

"It could be anyone," Stiles said. "So we need to make a system in order to weed it out."


	3. Chapter 3

The Sheriff came in the evening, looking pale and overworked. Melissa had phoned him earlier to tell him about Stiles, but couldn't get out of his shift until six. A body was found on the side of the highway, and just so happened to be within the county that was part of his responsibility. It had been torn into pieces, and that was all of the information the Sheriff was willing and able to dole out to explain his absence.

Stiles was still weak, but he sat up as soon as his father entered the room. "Hey Dad," he said, giving him a small smile.

"Thank God you're alright," the Sheriff breathed, pulling Stiles into a hug. Scott's senses blazed with the familiar smells of the Stilinski home, the draining scent of tiredness. Scott had no doubt that this was actually the Sheriff, and quietly left the room, giving the two some privacy.

He leaned up against the wall, trying to block out the voices of the Stilinskis while staying on alert as patients and doctors passed by him. He blinked rapidly when his vision turned red, hoping that no one saw his eyes flash gold.

Where the hell was holding Lydia up? He wanted to phone her, but could already hear the snippy comment about him delaying her work, so his phone stayed in his pocket.

His stomach growled loudly, and Scott looked at the closed hospital door. Would Stiles' father stay with him long enough for Scott to go grab a sandwich?

Scott decided not to risk it. Half an hour later, the Sheriff re-emerged from the room. Scott stood up; he'd been sitting on the floor, listening for anything unusual.

"Thank you for getting him here, Scott," the Sheriff said. His face looked relieved, and yet Scott saw the tenseness in his shoulders and how his eyes had entered Interrogative Mode. He crossed his arms, and Scott watched him, refusing to look away as the inevitable question was spoken.

"All Stiles said was that he was stabbed, but he didn't see his attacker's face," the Sheriff began. "But according to his doctors he was assaulted from the front, so unless he was completely blindsided he must've seen something. Did you see the guy's face, Scott?"

"It wasn't a very distinctive face," Scott replied, and it wasn't completely a lie. The shape shifter changed his looks so many times within those last few minutes that he didn't know how to pinpoint its "true" face. Did shape shifters have a default look, or did they go through their lives stealing others in order to survive?

The Sheriff sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to get anything else out of Scott. "How long have you been here?"

"Since I brought him here," Scott replied, gesturing at his bloodied clothes.

"You should get some sleep."

"I will," Scott said. _But not now,_ he told himself. _I can't._

* * *

Scott stayed in the room until Stiles finally fell asleep. Scott yawned, his eyes itching with tiredness, and he looked over at the clock. It was half past two in the morning. Earlier that evening, Melissa had come in to check Stiles' vitals and gave him painkillers via through one of the thin tubes stuck in his arm.

"Come home with me," Melissa had said wearily. "You've been up all day; you need to get some sleep—"

"I can't leave him alone," Scott insisted. "That _thing_ that attacked us is still out there. It'll strike once we're separated." He was being annoyingly stubborn, and he knew it.

His mother gave him a stern look. "And what good will you be if you're dead on your feet?" Scott gaped at her. Melissa's expression suddenly softened, and she gripped Scott's shoulder affectionately, running her thumb against his taunt collarbone.

Scott looked at her, his eyes wide and begging. Melissa sighed, and nodded wordlessly toward the empty bed to Stiles' left.

"Don't stay up too late," she told him. "And get something to eat." Scott nodded as Melissa left, her shift finally ending.

She had smelled like her usual, human self; citrus-scented bath gel and the lilac aroma of her scrubs.

* * *

He didn't hear from Lydia until eight the next morning. His phone rang from the other side of the room from where he slept, facing Stiles' bed. Scott blearily stumbled out of bed, and scrambled over to his phone. Stiles was still asleep somehow.

"Did you find out anything?!" Scott whispered, looking over at Stiles. He heard Lydia sigh dramatically over on her end; she was probably rolling her eyes at him as well.

He was tired, restless with anticipation and fear for Stiles' life. He needed answers, and Lydia stalling, even briefly, was setting his teeth on edge.

"The first search result on Google led me to Wikipedia," Lydia began loftily. "But that was completely useless. Then I found another site called Listverse, but all that gave me was a Top Ten list of mythological creatures." Scott could practically see the little smirk on her face. "Number one was Lycanthropes, in case you were interested.

"There are also quite a few interpretations in Norse, Slavic, and Asian mythologies. That show Stiles likes—_Supernatural_—is mentioned there for a second. I also checked out their Super-Wiki for some actual information, because every story holds a grain of truth to it. Did the shape shifter's eyes turn silver at any point?"

"No," said Scott, frowning.

"How about molting out of its flesh and growing a new set of teeth when it shifted?"

"None of that," Scott answered. "It just—shifted, with a new face and clothes. Its skin didn't melt off and grow a new one."

"Good," Lydia said, "that would be disgusting."

Lydia's tone almost sounded mocking. Was she even taking this seriously?!

Scott didn't even realize that he had said that out loud until he heard her _tsk_ing on the other end.

"I _am_ taking this seriously, Scott McCall," Lydia said angrily. "Filter your thoughts before you say them, or I won't be so willing to cooperate."

"But you will," Scott said desperately. He looked over at Stiles, who was still breathing deeply in his sleep. He could hear his heartbeat, slow and shuddering every few seconds. "You won't let him die."

Lydia was silent, and then said, "Can you handle holding silver?"

Scott nodded, and then realized how useless that gesture was. "Wolfsbane's my fatal weakness," he said. He never had trouble using his grandmother's silverware at home; the whole silver thing was almost laughable to a werewolf. Shades of it were fine, but he never experienced the sensation of _pure_ silver yet, and he didn't want to try that out anytime soon. "I should be OK."

"Shifters seem to have a commonality in weakness with it," Lydia said. "Find some, and keep it on hand until I can figure out a better way to deal with them."

* * *

The nurse came in an hour later to check on Stiles' vitals, who was still miraculously asleep. She was petite, her head just barely reaching Scott's shoulder. She gave the werewolf an anxious look as Scott stood at Stiles' side, glaring at her. He didn't mean to give off the vibe that he was _challenging_ her, but he was trying to catch a whiff of her scent without shoving his nose into her throat.

Plain soap and fabric softener. Scott felt himself relax by a fraction. Those types of fragrances weren't enough to persuade him that the nurse had Stiles' best interests in mind. Anybody could lather themselves with soap and call it a scent.

"Were you here all night?" the nurse asked, raising an eyebrow. Scott nodded, not daring to blink. The nurse frowned in disapproval. "We have a set rule about visiting hours, young man."

"I don't care," Scott growled. "I can't leave him."

"You're going to have to sometime today, young man," said the nurse. "How long have you been here?"

"Since he was in surgery."

"That was over twenty-five hours ago," said the nurse, checking the charts on her clipboard. She gestured at his clothes. "I suggest going home and taking a shower. Your friend will still be here when you come back."

"Why are you trying to get rid of me?!" Scott snapped. He dug his nails into his palms when he felt them lengthen into claws. Why couldn't the staff realize that he _needed_ to be here?! Even if they were ignorant of the shape shifter, Stiles had still been _stabbed_, and that would make anyone panic.

"Scott, calm down."

Scott looked over at the door, eyes growing wide at the sight of Lydia, wearing her red jacket and fitted white dress underneath. She strode into the room, smiling sweetly at the nurse, who looked like she was ready to throw both of them out.

"I'm sorry about him," Lydia said, glaring at Scott. "He has a one-track mind."

Scott was about to protest, but Lydia gave him a warning look before turning back to the nurse. "Can I talk to him in private?"

"Talk outside," said the nurse sternly. She gestured at Stiles. "I have to check his vitals, and your friend here is disturbing my patient."

"Disturbing him?!" Scott shouted, and he saw the nurse flinch. "He's my best friend—"

Lydia came up to him, and grabbed at his arm, directing him to the door. Scott glared at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Did they not teach you manners at wolf school?" Lydia hissed once they were outside Stiles' room. Scott wrenched out of her grasp, fuming.

"You were the one that told me to keep my guard up!" Scott whispered angrily.

"Guard up, yes," Lydia replied, "but I didn't say to act paranoid! Stop treating everyone like they're going to jump you!"

Scott clenched his fists, and his eyes flashed gold. Lydia was giving me so many mixed messages that he was getting whiplash. He suddenly reached out, and grabbed Lydia's shoulders, and she stumbled as he roughly pulled her towards him. He breathed in her scent: strawberry shampoo and the nauseating stench of perfume layered evenly over her regular scent.

Lydia scowled and shoved him away. "Have you been doing that to everyone?" she scoffed, narrowing his eyes at him.

"From a distance, yeah," Scott said defensively. He looked over at the door. Why was the nurse taking so long? He was tempted—no, _determined_—to race back in there before she could do anything.

"Scott!" Lydia hissed, and he snapped his head back to face her. "You wanted my help yesterday, and here I am. Stop ignoring me, or I _will _leave."

Scott sighed heavily, and ran his fingers through his hair, and winced when he felt sharp claws dragging across his scalp. He focused on breathing; in and out, in and out, and felt his claws recede into blunt fingernails.

"Better?" Lydia asked, tilting her head. She had a wide-eyed, accusing look on her face. Her hands were on her hips, waiting for his reply.

"Yes," Scott spat out.

Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"I haven't eaten in over a day," Scott said. He looked back at the door, where the nurse was coming out of. She gave Scott a suspicious look before heading down the hall.

"Go grab something to eat," Lydia instructed him. "I'll meet you in his room to talk. Or do you not trust me to be alone with him?"

Scott narrowed his eyes. "…I'll be back in ten minutes," he said. Lydia smiled victoriously, and sauntered into Stiles' room.


End file.
